


Winchesters

by mjsswjtch



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-22 20:20:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15589971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mjsswjtch/pseuds/mjsswjtch
Summary: How would Sam and Dean Winchester's lives be different if there were two more characters? Meet Thalia Rutherford and Luna Harvelle, and see the story of the hunters who saved the world from two more points of view: from the eyes of those who love them.





	1. Provenance

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the first chapter! This took me months to perfect, so I hope you enjoy! The song of the chapter is:  
> Heavy and Hanging - Patterson Hood

NEW PALTZ, NEW YORK

The painting hung on the wall precariously, as if waiting to leap off the hook at any time. The five people in the painting were somber, almost depressed. It might have been the aging of the paint, but all five looked sickly, as if they had been very ill when the picture had been painted. The whole picture was dark and hard to see, apart from the pale skin of the family.

The young couple who now owned the painting were still wearing their formal suit and dress. They stared at the painting, trying to figure out how they felt about it.

Mark Telesca stepped forward, adjusting the frame so it settled a little more securely on the wall.

“Okay,” he said, stepping back again. “Right about there.”

Ann Telesca giggled. “I can’t believe we actually bought this thing.”

Mark slung his arm around his wife. “There’s a reason charity auctions have an open bar," he joked.

They both stared at the painting for a moment. The painting's staring faces unnerved them, especially the father’s suspicious look at his youngest daughter. The young girl stared out with a slight smirk, as if she knew something the young couple did not. Neither one of them wanted to admit their concern.

Ann spoke first. “Don’t you think… I don’t know, it’s kinda creepy?”

Mark smiled a little and turned to his wife, pulling her to him as he unzipped the back of her dress. “It’s okay,” he said, pressing a kiss to her cheek, “I’ll keep you safe.”

Ann giggled again. “Maybe you’re the one I oughta be scared of!”

They kissed, and Ann whispered to her husband, “Let’s go upstairs.”

“Give me two minutes to lock up,” Mark replied, and his wife kissed him lingeringly in protest. 

“Alright, give me one minute,” Mark amended, and pinched Ann’s rear. She squealed, and ran up the stairs as fast as she could in her three-inch heels.

The eyes of the father in the painting turned to follow her. Once she was out of view, the eyes moved to Mark, who was locking the kitchen door.

Suddenly, Mark straightened. He wasn't sure what had alerted him. A small noise, an out of place breeze; something was off. He looked around, but when the room was empty, he shrugged and followed his wife up the steps.

Footsteps moved up the carpeted stairs. The floor creaked softly as Ann entered the master bedroom.

“If you don’t hurry up, I’m going to start without you!” she called, and a shadow appeared in the doorway. She grinned. A gust of wind blew out the bedside candle.

Mark entered the room a few moments later, already undoing his trousers. He headed for the dim shape of the bed.

“Babe, get the lights,” he said as he pulled his shirt over his head. “I can’t see a thing.” He knelt on the bed, shuffling forward before his brain registered the squishing noise the sheets had made.

“You spill something?” He leaned to the lamp, switching it on, and recoiled. Blood was dripping from his fingers and running down his arm. 

“Ann?” he asked quietly. His wife was lying across the bed, throat slit. Blood covered her front, and her eyes were open and staring, smudged mascara following the tear tracks down her face. 

Mark’s voice broke. “Ann? Ann!” He fell backward off the bed, struggling away from the bed. Breaths escaped him in short shallow gasps, and a shadow appeared over him. 

Mark Telesca looked up and screamed in horror as the blade slashed down. 

BEACON, NEW YORK

Dean Winchester leaned against the bar, all blue jeans and swagger, typing a number into his phone. 

“Seven, four, two, zero,” the woman finished, speaking loudly and leaning closer to be heard over the noise of the bar. 

“Seven, four, two zero,” Dean repeated. His snapped his phone shut, grinning at the gorgeous blonde in front of him. “Alright, you’re in there! Perfect. So is that Brandy with a ‘y’ or an ‘i’?”

Sam Winchester tried to ignore Brandy’s laughter, focusing on the newspapers spread out in front of him. Staring at one paragraph, he waved his brother over. Dean responded with his index finger raised. Sam could almost hear him brushing him off: _ “Come on, Sammy, I’ve got this one in the bag.” _

Sam waved again, and Dean’s smile dropped a little. “Alright, listen,” he said to Brandy, “I gotta go. Hold that thought, I’ll be right back, okay?”

Brandy giggled with her equally blonde friends as Dean approached the table, holding two beers. 

“Alright, I think we got something,” Sam said, straight to business.

Dean was already glancing back at the bar - and the girls. “Oh yeah, me too.” He turned back to his brother. “I think we need to take a little shore leave, just a little bit. What do you think, huh? I’m so in the door with this one.” Dean was grinning from ear to ear.

Sam scoffed. “So, what are we today, Dean? I mean, are we rock stars, army rangers…?”

Dean’s grin widened even further, if that was possible. “Reality TV scouts, looking for people with special skills. I mean, hey, its not that far off, right?” 

Sam rolled his eyes.

"By the way,"  Dean continued, “she’s got a friend over there, possibly hook you up. What do you think?”

“Dean, no thanks, I can get my own dates.” Sam went back to the newspaper on the table.

“Yeah,” Dean said, smile gone, “you can, but you don’t.”

Sam looked up again. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Dean looked at him for a second, then shook his head. “Nothing. What you got?”

Sam hesitated for a moment before speaking. “Mark and Ann Telesca of New Paltz, New York, were both found dead in their own home a few days ago. Throats were slit. There were no prints, no murder weapons, all-”

Dean’s gaze had drifted back to the women at the bar. 

“Dean!” 

Dean’s head snapped back to Sam, and Sam sighed and continued.

“No prints, no murder weapons, all doors and windows locked from the inside.” Sam sat back and watched Dean think.

Dean took a drink of his beer. “Could be just a garden variety murder, you know, not our department.”

“No,” Sam said confidently, pulling a worn leather notebook out of his bag. “Dad says different.

“What do you mean?” Dean leaned forward, fully focused now. 

Sam pushed aside a few papers and pointed to a half-buried map. “Dad noted three murders in the same area of upstate New York. First one here in 1912,” he said, moving his finger to different spots up and down the East Coast, “second one right here in 1945, and the third in 1970, the same M.O. as the Telescas. Their throats were slit, doors were locked from the inside. Now so much time had passed between murders that nobody checked the pattern-”

“Except Dad,” Dean nodded. 

“-Except Dad. He kept his eyes peeled for another one.”

“And now we got one.” Dean looked at the maps and papers for a moment. “Alright, I'm with ya. It's worth checking out.” He paused. “We can't pick this up til first thing though, right?”

Sam looked bewildered. “Yeah.”

Dean smacked the table decisively and stood. “Good,” he said as he headed back toward the bar. 

“Dean…” Sam trailed off as Dean reached the bar. 

“Ladies, did you miss me?” He had no shame, all confidence at the corny line.

“Well, yeah,” Brandy said sarcastically. 

“I’m just kidding. Listen,” he said, pointing a thumb back towards Sam, “I talked to my producer, and it is looking good.”

“Great, cool,” Brandy and her friends chorused.

Sam sniggered as Dean delivered corny line after corny line. His brother was a smooth-talking lunatic. 

Dean was slumped in the passenger seat when Sam approached the car the next morning, sunglasses on and looking rough. Sam peered through the window, and upon seeing his brother asleep, quietly hurried around to the other side of the car. Sam reached through the open driver’s window and honked the horn, making Dean jump. 

“Man, that is so not cool,” Dean grumbled as Sam laughed and climbed into the car. 

“I just swept the Telescas with EMF. Its clean,” Sam said. “And last night, while you were, well,  _ out- _ ”

Dean smirked. “Good times,” he muttered.

Sam ignored him. “-I checked the history of the house. Nothing strange about the Telescas.”

Dean pushed himself upright. “Alright, so if it’s not the people and it’s not the house, then maybe it’s the contents. Cursed object or something.”

Sam was already shaking his head. “The house is clean.”

“Yeah, I know,” Dean cut in. “You said that.”

“No, I mean it’s empty.” Sam looked just confused as Dean did. “No furniture, nothing.” 

“Then,” Dean said slowly, “where’s all their stuff?”


	2. The Telesca Estate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now we meet our new character! The song for this scene is:  
>  Romantic Piece No.1 - Dvorak

NEW PALTZ, NEW YORK - RUTHERFORD AUCTION HOUSE

The cars parked in front of Rutherford Auction House were expensive, vintage, fast, or all three. Personalized license plates littered the lot, ranging from ‘F1GHTM3’ to ‘THE KRIP.’ Apart from the dusty Impala at the end of the row, all the cars were spotless and in prime condition.   
The inside of the auction house was no different. People in fancy clothes milled around the room, talking quietly and drinking champagne. Most of them were there only to be seen, not caring at all about the charity auction that was taking place. Classical violin music played softly in the background. 

The auction house was filled to the brim with various artifacts, from tables and chairs to various quilts and sheets hanging against one wall. The whole display was interspersed by obviously fake plants, none of them with flowers. White walls offset the chaos, reflecting the sunlight streaming in from the floor to ceiling windows. 

Sam and Dean wandered the auction house quietly, looking exceedingly out of place in their old jackets and dirty jeans. Dean picked bits of food from passing trays carried by waiters, unabashedly stuffing his face. 

Across the room, an older man in a nicely fitted suit spotted them, and excused himself from the group of well-dressed people he was chatting with. He began to work his way across the room towards the brothers as they stopped in the middle of the auction. 

“Consignment auctions, estate sales,” Dean said, waving a hand at the crowded room around them. “Looks like a garage sale for wasps if you ask me.”

Sam nodded and continued to examine the room as the man approached from behind them. 

“Can I help you gentlemen?” He seemed pleasant, but as the brothers spun around to face him, Sam noticed he was examining them as carefully as they had checked the room. 

Dean looked him up and down, smiled a little, and then put more food in his mouth. “I’d like some champagne, please,” he said in a fake British accent. 

Sam tensed. “He’s not a waiter, Dean.” Dean just cocked an eyebrow as Sam held out a hand to the man. 

“I’m Sam Connors,” Sam started. 

The man just looked at him, making no movement to shake his hand. Sam brought his hand back, and then pointed to Dean. “This is my brother, Dean. We’re art dealers, with Connors Limited.”

“You,” the man said skeptically, “are art dealers?”

“That’s right.” Sam shifted uncomfortably, but the man seemed to buy it. 

“I’m Daniel Rutherford, this is my auction house.” The man’s pleasant manner was back, treating them as other customers. “Now, gentlemen, this is a private showing, and I don’t remember seeing you on the guest list.” 

“We’re there, Chuckles,” Dean said aggressively. “You just need to take another look.”

A waiter passed by with glasses of champagne balanced precariously on his tray, and Dean swiped one. “Oh, finally,” he muttered, turning back to Rutherford. He waved the glass under his nose, raising his eyebrows, cocky as ever. He turned and walked away without a glance to see if Sam was following. 

“Cheers,” Sam muttered to Rutherford, and hastily followed his brother, eyes shooting daggers at his retreating back. Rutherford shook his head and went to find the man in charge of the guest list.

Sam and Dean wandered the room, checking each item, waiting for that telltale feeling in their gut to warn them of something otherworldly. They circled the room, and managed to make it back around to each other on the opposite side. They ended up in front of a dark painting, occupied only by five pale people. 

As they looked at the painting, and then each other, a clear voice sounded behind them.

“A fine example of American Primitive, wouldn't you say?”

Sam and Dean turned to see a young woman in a black dress coming down a spiral staircase. The dress clung in all the right places, three-quarter sleeves making the outfit sleek and classy, and her ash brown hair was loose. She painted a very elegant and beautiful picture. 

They boys could only stare at her as she turned around the last part of the staircase, revealing the back of her dress - or rather, the lack of one. Dean ogled as Sam turned back to the painting, thinking hard. Dean smacked Sam, trying to get him to turn back around, but Sam ignored his brother. 

Sam spoke as the woman approached them. “Well, I’d say it’s more Grant Wood than Grandma Moses.” He turned to face her, and she stopped in front of them, smiling softly. 

“But,” he continued, “you knew that. You just wanted to see if I did.” 

The woman laughed. “Guilty. And… clumsy. I apologize.” She put a hand out to shake. “I’m Thalia Rutherford.”

Sam shook her hand, but Dean made no move toward her. 

“I’m Sam, and this is my…” Sam trailed off as Dean continued to stuff his face, grabbing bits of food from every passing tray within reach. “...brother, Dean.” Sam finished. 

Thalia nodded politely. “Dean.” She paused as Dean continued to eat off trays. “Can we get you some more mini-quiche?” she asked sarcastically. Sam snorted.

“I’m good,” Dean forced out. “Thanks.”

Thalia just raised her eyebrows and turned back to Sam. “So, can I help you with something?”

“Yeah, actually,” Sam said, choosing to ignore his brother. “What can you tell us about the Telesca estate?”

“The whole thing’s pretty grisly if you ask me, selling your things this soon. But Dad’s right about one thing,” Thalia explained, wincing slightly. “Sensationalism brings out the crowds. Even the rich ones.”

“Is it possible to see the provenances?” Sam asked, and Dean glanced at him. He was about to speak when Rutherford spoke from behind them. 

“I’m afraid there isn’t any chance of that.” He spoke clearly, as if talking to someone who was hard of hearing - or beneath him. 

“Why not?” Sam turned to face him, Dean taking slightly longer as he was still ogling Thalia.

“You’re not on the guest list,” Rutherford said smugly. “And I think its time to leave.”

Dean smiled, trying to get control of the situation. “Well, we don’t have to be told twice-”

Rutherford interrupted. “Apparently you do.”

“Okay,” Sam agreed. “It’s alright. We don’t want any trouble. We’ll go.”

Dean raised his eyebrows scornfully, and walked off without another word. As Sam turned to follow, he caught Thalia’s eye. They each smiled softly, just a tiny upturn at the corner of their mouths. Finally Sam turned away and strode after Dean’s retreating back.

“Dad, that was just rude,” Thalia said, facing her father. Rutherford only shrugged. 

  
  


Sam and Dean approached their motel room, Dean juggling the room key and his car keys. 

“Grant Wood, Grandma Moses?” Dean asked skeptically. 

“Art History course. It’s good for meeting girls,” Sam explained. 

“It’s like I don’t even know you,” Dean joked, unlocking the door of the motel room.

The room was covered in silver and glitter. It looked like it had been decorated by a 70s disco singer. Black shag carpet covered the floor, and black and white checkered wallpaper occupied every wall but one, which was painted a solid, glossy black. The divider between the beds and the kitchenette was made of metal circles in black and silver, and the theme continued to the monochrome paisley duvets and pillows. 70s style furniture filled the small room; even the table was made to look as if there were wine glasses between the tabletop and the legs. The ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign that hung on the door handle was a sparkling silhouette of John Travolta from  _ Saturday Night Fever _ . 

“Huh,” Sam and Dean said together, staring around the room. 

Shrugging, they moved to the beds, unpacking their bags quickly. 

“What was…” Dean started, struggling to remember what Sam had said, “providence?”

“Prov-eh-nance,” Sam sounded out. “It’s a certificate of origin, like a biography. You know, we can use them to check the history of the pieces, see if any of them have a freaky past.”

“Huh. Well, we’re not getting anything out of Chuckles, but Thalia…” Dean snapped his fingers at Sam, smirking proudly. 

Sam laughed and shook his head. “Yeah, maybe you can get her to write it all down on a cocktail napkin.”

Dean chuckled. “Not me…”

Sam stared blankly for a moment. “No!” He cried suddenly at his brother’s smug expression. “No, no no, pick ups are your thing, Dean.”

“It wasn’t my butt she was checking out,” Dean pressed. 

“So in other words,” Sam said, exasperated, “you want me to use her to get information.”

“Sometimes you gotta take one for the team,” Dean explained, and Sam rolled his eyes. Dean tossed his brother his cell phone. “Call her.”


End file.
